Coloured Glass
by agui-ki
Summary: FE3H Oneshots: A series of stories surrounding the future, past, the present, and the possibilities of what-ifs. Chapter 1: A hundred years after the war, Byleth reminisces. Chapter 2: Linhardt and Caspar reunite, but Edelgard interferes.
1. The Whims of a Goddess

**A hundred years after the war, Byleth reminisces.**

* * *

Byleth couldn't shut the screams out from his mind, his students' voices ringing in his ears with no end in sight.

It was just one of those days when he fell too far into his mind and dug up memories he had worked tirelessly to push down before.

The explosions of magic, blades clashing, blood spilling—all of it flashed in his eyes. In one life, Byleth would have stayed with Edelgard and rejected the Church of Seiros, maybe even support her ideals. In another, he would have chosen Dimitri and fought for Faerghus, or maybe Claude and his dreams which were not unlike to Edelgard's.

He wondered what his students would do all those years ago if they what they had become, tired of fighting for a war that seemed neverending and blood on their hands, killing former classmates, friends, and even lovers with indifference.

Would they seek to change that future or run away? Maybe they would take that to their advantage and gather intel, or submit to whoever they judged held the most power and favour?

Maybe Sylvain wouldn't force himself to kill Felix for betraying the Kingdom for the Empire, and Linhardt wouldn't be executed by Edelgard for refusing to fight Caspar, who kept accidentally missing with his axes and enormous strength. Maybe Mercedes and Annette would live together helping and teaching orphans, not blindly throwing spells at each other with tears in their eyes, and perhaps Marianne would have had her happy ending with Hilda instead of draping over her to protect her from a shower of arrows. Maybe Manuela would have found her perfect guy and Hanneman the cure to Lysithea's short-lived life.

And maybe, just maybe, Dimitri would have lived happily without revenge calling in his ears, Claude with his dreams of peace never far from reach, and Edelgard without her nightmares haunting her every night.

It didn't matter back then when they were battling for their lives and the future of Fodlan, but sometimes his thoughts wandered and he wished—for despite his blank face, lacking heartbeat and blunt words, he loved every single one of the students who surrounded him back in Garreg Mach no matter what side they chose. Even if they had long left him, they were still the group of inexperienced kids he had taught so long ago.

He still missed every single one of them.

"Archbishop," a voice called. "I believe it's time for you to retire to your room."

"There is still more work to do," he said, shaking straying thoughts from his head as he tapped the table with his pen. "We are preparing another meeting with the king of Almyra and Brigid's monarch next fortnight, and trade with Sreng is beginning to improve. If I sleep now, there will be more work for me tomorrow."

The man sighed, heavy yet understanding, and took half of the unfinished stack to Byleth's left into his possession. "There will always be more paperwork the next day," he said. "However, working with a fresh mind is always better than being half asleep."

"Seteth, I am not tired." He shoved the yawn down his throat. He was used to working long hours as a mercenary, then a professor, and then a soldier in the war. This wasn't remotely anything compared to the horrors he had faced before.

"You were nodding off when I came in and wouldn't respond to my calls, Lord Byleth."

"Just call me Byleth." Pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes, he held his hand out. "And give those back, Seteth. I do not need you handling so much and half my work too."

He gave Byleth a silent stare, and a few seconds later, he retracted his hand. The man sighed again.

"The entirety of Fodlan, even the Church of Seiros, is under your care," he said, and the look in his eyes bordered on fond exasperation as if he had this conversation once before. They had. "As our leader, many look up to you and would handle anything you ask without delay. Please, do not hesitate to ask us for assistance—Flayn worries for you."

Flayn. The girl who was hundreds of years old, who used to call him professor and had, once upon a time, pretended to be Seteth's sister. Though, that was more than a hundred years ago.

Byleth set his pen down and exhaled through his nose. He played with the end of the long braid hanging over his shoulder, fashioned after Rhea back when she was Seiros, before pushing his hair behind his pointed ears.

"How talented you are in manipulating me," he said, sitting back on his chair and stringing his fingers together. "Rather unfair, is it not?"

Seteth revealed a rare smile, glanced into the audience chamber with distant eyes, and said, "You are much more gifted than me in battle, even when I was in my prime."

"And Rhea? What about her?"

Rhea, the woman who had one of the greatest influences on him, other than his father, and who was technically his grandmother, which made him Sothis' great-grandchild. But, he pondered, he was also Sothis, so that made Rhea his (their?) daughter, and made him his great-grandchild. Seteth was something along the lines of a great-uncle and Flayn his aunt, but also his son and granddaughter all the same.

A twisted family tree, but it wasn't so bad.

"Rhea was strong," Seteth admitted and the mist in his eyes thickened, "but Seiros was stronger."

He hummed a response and the two fell into silence.

He didn't realise it back then, but his fusion with Sothis and inheritance of her powers had rendered him half a human, left to wander the lands with the last two remaining Nabateans by his side until they died much like Rhea had. Immortality sounded great but in reality, it was lonely—frighteningly so.

After they had spent long enough in Fodlan after the war, way past they estimated life spans, he, Seteth, and Flayn all faked their deaths several years after the other in staged events. The three of them had hidden away until society had forgotten their faces, then returned one by one to their previous stations to rule over the land once more.

"You were remembering the war, were you not?" he suddenly spoke, and Byleth frowned, leaning forward. "Rhea always had the same face whenever she remembered the events of the Red Canyon Tragedy."

Ah, so that was how he knew.

"Is that so ..." He pressed his lips together, willing the flashes of red from his thoughts. He returned the pen to its spot, shuffled the papers into the desk drawer, and stood. Joints popping and knuckles cracking, he stretched. "I shall retire to my room if you give those papers back."

Seteth barely hesitated, though he noted some reluctance when he handed the papers over. They also went inside the drawer.

The two left his office and passed several knights, who nodded respectfully at the two. When they reached the stairs to the third floor, Byleth paused at the bottom.

"Is something the matter?"

His head tilted at the ceiling, and his eyes traced the cracks in the stone. The joyous faces of his students followed his gaze.

"... If I manage to finish all my work and clear my schedule," he murmured, "would you allow me to teach at the Academy for a little?"

There was a knowing look in his eye and a sad expression on his face. Byleth guessed this was what he felt when Flayn used to call him Brother and not Father—like he was neglecting what they were at heart. He, a father, and Byleth, a professor.

"The students wouldn't be able to concentrate if the archbishop himself taught them the basics of reason and sword," Seteth chuckled. "Good night, Archbishop."

A smile riddled his lips, and his eyes curved gently upwards.

It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either.

Maybe, after he finds a successor, he would be a professor again full-time. Maybe. It would always be a maybe.

"Good night, Seteth."


	2. The Last Laugh

**Linhardt and Caspar reunite, and Edelgard ends it all.**

* * *

He hugged Caspar closer, searching for that missing beat in his chest. Blood bruised his tattered clothes and the stench filled his nose. He bit his lip in frustration and anger, pushing his faith magic into the wound.

"Caspar, Caspar! Don't— please don't—!" His own injuries felt numb compared to the ache in his chest, nose burning and tears beginning to fall. "You idiot! You stupid idiot! You— you're the worst!"

His faith magic was stuttering, and he couldn't knit the wound together without a sob racking his throat. His hair had loosed from its tie, blocking his sight, and Caspar's shattered armour was poking at his arm.

Linhardt had been hailed as the Empire's best mage, once upon a time, and people claimed he could heal any injury in the world if he tried. He hated it. He wished they never said anything, he wished he could just sleep his problems, his expectations and his father's constant pressure away. But Edelgard, her Majesty, his once classmate and now Empress, fostered those rumours, and they grew out of hand. The logic in him understood what those claims could do—they ensured the enemies felt helpless against a healer who could heal the soldiers again and again and killing them was useless—but everything else inside him hated her with a passion.

But this was the only time he wished those rumours were actually true, that he could fix anyone up with a wave of his hands because his best friend—his stupid, stupid, _stupid_ best friend was dying right in front of him and he couldn't do anything about it.

A shock ran through his heart when a hand grasped his wrist.

"... Lin."

"No, shut up! Sh—shut up, Caspar!" he cried. His head felt like it was going to burst and his arms were shaking violently. Fatigue was catching up to him fast, but if he stopped now he'd never hear his voice again.

"Sto—stop," Caspar rasped. "Lin ... stop. Stop it. It's use—"

"Don't say that! Don't you dare say that!" Caspar's hand barely brushed against his face, slowly following the lines of his face in a melancholy manner before falling to his chest with a thump. "It'll be fine, I promise. You'll be fine. You'll survive, and then I'll run away with you. I'll go to join the Kingdom as well! And then, after the war, we can go travel the world, just like you wanted. Okay? Caspar, answer me. Caspar."

"'S okay, Lin," he slurred, so resigned and helpless, head pressed into Linhardt's arm and brows scrunched tight. "... Fine, 'm fine. I'll be fine. I just ... wanna take ... a nap ..."

It was then that he burst into tears, clutching his friend closer and closer. His jaw was tense and his shoulders shook violently as he whimpered into the night. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he sobbed. "I should've gone with you, I should've been a better healer, I should've been a better friend, I—"

"I ... 'm ... sleepy ..."

A feather-light breeze whispered in his ears, and a sudden calm washed over everything.

Pulling away, ever so slowly as to not wake him up, he grabbed Caspar's face gently, brushing away all the stray hairs and mud from his tanned skin. He looked at him for the first time in five years—looked at him properly. His hair had grown out, face marred by ugly scars, all the softness in his face had hardened, and despite death breathing over his shoulder, that smile of his was so refreshing, so sweet, so kind, so happy—

His blue eyes, usually so clear and bright, were blank, staring at the space next to his head. He was gone. Just like that.

Rain fell.

It soaked his clothes, the ground, gritty mud smearing dark against his skin, and yet it hid his tears from everyone. It hid them from Caspar's eyes.

Linhardt watched him sleep for what seemed like hours. Memorized the shape of his nose, the thin freckles across his face, the fading red of his cheeks, those blue eyes, his hair, his voice, his sunny personality. He wondered if he looked that peaceful to Caspar whenever he napped all those years ago. Maybe. Who knows. He wasn't here to tell him.

The sharp splashing and tacking of heels grated against his ears, and it took all of his strength to face the woman before him.

That billowing cape, flowing dress, white hair, golden crown glinting in the light behind the clouds and glowing axe with a conscious of its own. It all used to be so inspiring to him—a woman from the family whom Seiros herself raised to power defying the norm to create a better place for the people. She was so intriguing. Used to be. Once was.

"He was an honourable warrior," she commented, red lips curving into a frown. "But, sadly, he chose the wrong side to fight on."

Immediately, at those words, his eyes averted. A realisation. An understanding. A _revelation_.

"I understand you wish to mourn Caspar, but you have your duties to attend to. Stand up, Linhart," she commanded, eyes trained on the few Kingdom soldiers before them. "It is your job to heal the injured."

It was all this woman. All her. All her fault.

"Go away," he hissed, sinking deeper into Caspar's cold embrace. He was sleeping peacefully beneath him, and Linhardt was glad he didn't have to fight anymore. Kind, kind Caspar didn't deserve to be so jaded and tired and just—he couldn't bear to see that haunted look on his face. So he hugged him tighter, nevermind the arrow deep in his shoulder or the ugly red seeping into his clothes and running down his skin. He wanted to savour the warmth of Caspar for the last time.

"Linhardt, stand up."

He knew Hubert was keeping an eye on him from afar, but he didn't care anymore.

"Stand. Up."

A heavy feeling set in his chest, weighing his body down. Caspar was gone, he couldn't hear the professor's everpresent words of advice in his ears, the days of peace was gone, he was killing people in a war he never wanted to participate in. Edelgard wasn't the charismatic person he thought she was, nor was she benevolent, understanding, or pacifistic. He had sinned against the Goddess Sothis, her champion and her people, and everything he loved was the price to pay.

The dreams he had dreamt were just dreams, after all. There was no such thing as a place you could relax forever in, where you had everything you ever wanted and were happy for all the days to come.

"For the last time, stand up."

**_Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you._**

"I said, stand up! That is an order!" she bellowed. "Are you disobeying me?!"

"That's exactly what I'm doing, Edelgard!"

And all was silent between them. The rest of the soldiers of the Kingdom had been taken care of, and Linhardt could tell the rest of the group of what used to be the Black Eagles back at the academy were watching warily, glancing between both him and their Empress.

He clenched his fists and ground his teeth together.

This woman was so infuriating, always expecting people to obey her because she was powerful, and had a crest, and was the Empress, and believed she could start a war just to fix the crest system. There were so many other ways to fix this after she became empress and she chose more death. How arrogant, selfish, disgusting of her.

**Sinner, sinner, sinner, _sinner, sinner SINNER._**

"An insubordinate attitude or the act of insubordination is to defy the crown, Linhardt. Stand up, and I will forget this. Stand up and heal the injured, and I will forgive you. I do not want to lose an invaluable healer such as you."

"Heal the injured?" he scoffed. "Do you not want to acknowledge you are the cause of all these deaths? You preach for peace yet start a war all the same. Is something wrong with you? Don't you understand? You've sacrificed so many people for those in the future, but aren't we the future too?! Why do we have to fight for those in the future if we'll never get to experience that peace?! Do we not deserve it?! Do we?!"

He tore into her, his chewed nails digging into the ground furiously, and he could feel the sting of raw skin and blood against the harsh stone.

"Questioning your empress is punishable by death. I do not wish to kill any more than necessary."

"Any more than _necessary_?! What a joke! Kill me then! Weren't you going to be the absolute ruler of Fodlan?! I'm disobeying your orders, aren't I?! Go ahead, kill me! Kill me as you did with all those in the war! The villagers back in Remire village, Dimitri's family, Duscur, Ashe and Lonato, Lady Rhea, Flayn, Seteth—kill me just like them!" Edelgard stared down at him with those unnaturally lavender eyes of hers, and he couldn't help but note the blood rubbed into the creases of her crown and how her cloak absorbed the war's harvest yet didn't look any different. Red. Like passion, anger, war, revenge, blood, fire—Edelgard was always Red. "Are you listening to me, Your Majesty?! REPENT!"

His screaming died into croaky breaths, bile crawling up his throat and threatening to spill past his lips. He was tired, so, so tired. He didn't want to deal with this anymore.

"Very well, Linhardt. You chose to betray the Empire and question its actions for the greater good. Your punishment is death. Any last requests on where you'd like to be executed? Any last words? A will?" Then, her eyes fell to the second body beneath her. "Anyone you'd like to be buried with? Anything?"

His cheeks groaned as they pulled into a frown. Caspar's hair was soft between his fingers and he questions why he never did it before all this.

"What a shame."

Linhardt paused, closing his eyes to imagine Caspar's face again. The tightness in his chest lifted and burst into warmth. He was fine with this.

"... I'm glad the Professor chose Dimitri over you."

Edelgard flinched ever so slightly, and her brows creased together for a moment. She sighed deeply, raised her axe, and wore a sad, almost disappointed look on her face. His crest seemed to glow and croon at his words, and he knew he had the last laugh.

The axe came down, and Linhardt felt just a tad sleepier.

* * *

**Don't get me wrong, I love Edelgard.**

**But I also love angst and hatred.**


End file.
